‘Look,’ says Fen, ‘someone’s painted Lance Armstrong’s name!’

‘But he’s not riding this year,’ Pip remarks of the rider who had won the Tour spectacularly having beaten cancer.

‘Nope,’ Fen says, ‘his wife’s just had another baby.’

‘I’m going to do another Vasily,’ says Pip, ‘just with the one “s”.’

‘OK,’ Fen enthuses, ‘I’ll do Svorada – he’s a spunk.’

‘And then we’ll return the paint and ingratiate ourselves to Mr Van Gogh,’ Pip says very earnestly.

‘Absolutely,’ Fen says, finding room for an exclamation mark after A L L E Z M I L L A R. ‘I’m cold, thirsty and hungry already.’

By 11.15 a.m., when the race rolled out of Grenoble, Pip and Fen had painted the names of most of the peloton and made many friends on L’Alpe D’Huez. Consequently, coffee, beer, junk food, transistor radios and expertise had been laid generously at the English girls’ disposal. Mr Van Gogh was called Marc and Pip whispered to Fen that, in daylight, he appeared to be looking more and more like Johnny Depp. Fen decided her sister probably should not have had a beer for breakfast so she told her to pee behind a boulder, which Pip dutifully did.

‘Remarkably like Johnny Depp,’ she said to Fen on her return. ‘I’m covered in whitewash.’

‘What makes a great climber?’ Fen asked Marc, while Pip gave him a fleeting flutter of her eyelashes.

‘Basically, a strong will and a high strength-to-weight ratio,’ Marc explained, ‘though, being light and nimble, they often lose time to the heavier riders when descending.’

‘Have you ever been to England?’ Pip asked Marc.

‘What makes a good descender then?’ Fen interrupted his reply.

‘Confidence,’ Marc said, ‘supreme nerve.’

‘Your English is so good,’ Pip flattered, beer for breakfast increasing her confidence, ‘you must visit London.’

A cheery Belgian called Fritz offered paprika-flavoured potato chips around. ‘Eye reflexes have to be really sharp and honed,’ he told Fen. ‘That’s OK for the first descents but later, when the riders are tired – ppffp!’ He motioned with his hand a rider careering off the road.

‘Also, the change in rhythm,’ a Danish girl called Jette interjected. ‘It’s very pronounced for the riders to go from the big gears and flat roads to small gears and long climbs – they have to spin rather than churn.’

Fen nodded earnestly.

Pip gazed at Marc.

‘Nerves,’ Marc said, gazing at the gradient of the mountain road unfurling in front of them, ‘the belief you can go a step beyond your limit.’

Pip whistled slowly.

‘Massimo Lipari could well take the Stage,’ said Jette, ‘and claim the King of the Mountains jersey.’

‘Today,’ said Marc, thoroughly enjoying the way that Pip hung on his every word and occasionally his arm too, ‘Jawlensky will challenge Ducasse for the maillot jaune.’

Cat did not see her sisters as she drove Alex and Josh to the salle de pressé but, from the look and sound of the clamouring crowd, she was convinced they’d be having a party and she needn’t worry about them. In fact, she did not have time to spare them much thought. Bad weather was forecast. Dramatic action was prophesied. Jersey-switching was predicted. Frantic rewriting of copy was a foregone conclusion. She had driven the route because, as with the Pyrenees, she needed to experience just a snatch of the haul of the mountains the peloton were going to confront. It had been an arduous drive, well over 100 kilometres longer than the itinéraire direct and L’Alpe D’Huez seemed even more severe than it had in the early hours.